


Nightingale (The Tiny Glass Bells Mash-Up)

by Brigdh



Category: Yami No Matsuei
Genre: Angst, Community: remix_redux, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Fairy Tales, M/M, Pining, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-30
Updated: 2009-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 11:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigdh/pseuds/Brigdh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of love and fairy tales.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightingale (The Tiny Glass Bells Mash-Up)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Remix 2007. The original story is [The Nightingale](http://ranalore.slashcity.net/ynmnightingale.html) by Rana Eros.
> 
> Thanks to my beta, kessie, who was willing to look at this when I finished at the last minute. There are more detailed notes about this story located [here](http://wordsofastory.livejournal.com/299232.html).

_So Death gave up each of these treasures for a song; and the nightingale continued her singing. She sung of the quiet churchyard, where the white roses grow, where the elder-tree wafts its perfume on the breeze, and the fresh, sweet grass is moistened by the mourners' tears. Then Death longed to go and see his garden, and floated out through the window in the form of a cold, white mist._  
-The Nightingale, Hans Christian Anderson

The little bird had dark gold feathers and emerald eyes, and it moved in small hops across the table before it chose a spot, tilted its head, and opened its beak to release a mellow voice. It was the same song they all sang, of course; Tsuzuki wasn't quite drunk, but he was far enough along that he hadn't bothered to add anything new to the spell. He didn't mind, though. Even if the song was faint and short, it had a cheerful, light melody, like one of the waltzes his sister had loved. If Tsuzuki closed his eyes, the tinny music even sounded like one of the early record players she had admired. But the bird was too pretty to close his eyes on; its colors were so bright that he must have done that on purpose, though he didn't remember doing so. Tsuzuki compromised, and tipped his head back against the edge of the Western-style bed as he sat on the floor, and watched the bird through half-closed eyes.

None of them lasted long, either. As soon as the song was done, the bird fluttered its wings, shivered, and with a small cry collapsed down to a crumple of paper. It fell off of the table, bouncing almost to Tsuzuki's feet. He picked it up and carefully smoothed it out against his thigh, trying not to tear it, even though there wasn't anything left that could feel pain. All the colors were gone too, leaving the plain paper and the black ink of the spell looking faded and dull. He set it with the others, a stack of used-up fuda on his left side, and reached for a fresh sheet of paper. For a moment, he studied his fingers against its whiteness, but his hands were clean and didn't leave any mark on the paper. At least not until he picked up the ink brush.

"Tsuzuki, don't," Hisoka said. "You're giving me a headache."

"Sorry." Tsuzuki dropped the brush back down, the ink thankfully not splashing. Hisoka sat in one of the armchairs of the hotel room, one leg folded under him. He was looking at the book he held and not at Tsuzuki, but he did seem pale, his eyebrows drawn together in irritation. "Is your empathy bothering you? I can go, if you want."

"Don't be an idiot," Hisoka muttered. Tsuzuki supposed that meant he was allowed to stay. That was good. He didn't want to be alone, though he would have left if Hisoka had asked. But he hadn't, and so Tsuzuki could stay, even if Hisoka wasn't saying much. Tsuzuki thought about asking him what he was reading, and then he tried not to think about how Hisoka looked, elegant and skilled even curled into a chair, trained limbs maintaining their straight lines. Hisoka's hands widened gracefully out of thin wrists, and his fingers were long and slender; he turned a page, touching the cover of the book with care.

Tsuzuki grabbed the cheap beer he was drinking and knocked the side of the bottle, spilling some. It soaked silently into the carpet, but it fizzed on the back of his hand, tiny clear bubbles forming and popping. "Whoops." Tsuzuki laughed, grateful for the distraction, and slurped it off his skin, deliberately loud.

Hisoka rolled his eyes, and then set down his book, climbing out of the chair. He took away Tsuzuki's beer, putting it safely on the table, and out of reach. "You're so clumsy."

"I know. I'm a mess, right?" Tsuzuki grinned up at him, to make it a joke, but even he could tell that it wasn't quite working, not today.

Hisoka knelt next to him, bringing their faces down to the same level. He was near enough to touch, but Tsuzuki didn't; he would let Hisoka make the first move. He always did. It was hard to keep smiling with Hisoka so close; everything Tsuzuki felt was trying to choke him, and he held his breath because he was afraid that he would gasp if he didn't, and Hisoka might be scared away. Hisoka stared at him, looking for something maybe, and then he put a hand on Tsuzuki's shoulder and pulled him into a firm kiss. The fingers Tsuzuki had watched lay flat, and then abruptly fisted in Tsuzuki's shirt, pulling it tight across his back and chest. Tsuzuki stopped being careful and kissed Hisoka hard enough to drive him back a little, just enough that they were both upright on their knees. It didn't matter; Tsuzuki always forgot that Hisoka knew what he was feeling anyway.

It was not the first time they'd done this, but that didn't make it any easier. Familiarity hadn't made Tsuzuki want Hisoka any less. There were things he only ever knew while they were happening, like the delicacy of Hisoka's waist, the strength in his upper arms, how his eyes gleamed in the dark. Hisoka was still the most beautiful thing Tsuzuki knew. He thought sometimes that he must have misunderstood; it seemed like a lie, or a story made up for a book, that Hisoka would want him back.

At one point, Tsuzuki's heart beat so wildly that his fingers shook with the flow of blood in his veins. He steadied a hand against Hisoka's cheek, wanting to say something appropriate, but he had no gift for words. "Hisoka, stay with me, please. I'd give you anything, I'd-" Tsuzuki swallows.

But Hisoka only frowned. "You've already given me everything I need."

Afterward, they lay in the hotel bed together, with the sheet over them. Tsuzuki pressed his face into the nape of Hisoka's neck, but kept his hands to himself; Hisoka didn't like to be held too tightly. It would be nice, he thought, to sleep like this always, to convince Hisoka to move in with him, or to start living in Hisoka's house. But Tsuzuki had asked before, and been refused. Pity and guilt didn't motivate Hisoka the way they could Tsuzuki, and he wouldn't do anything just because Tsuzuki wanted him to.

Hisoka smelled like sweat and a fancy soap with something masculine in it, sandalwood maybe, and faintly like the cherry blossoms that clung to everything in Meifu. Tsuzuki wished they were back there. "Do you think this case will be over soon, Hisoka?"

The faint light from the window slid over the bones in Hisoka's shoulder when he shrugged. "It doesn't seem very difficult." Hisoka's voice was low, more of a sigh than anything, and Tsuzuki thought he must be almost asleep.

Hisoka only came to Tsuzuki when he wanted it himself. Tsuzuki whispered, "I'm glad," and watched his breath stir the light ends of Hisoka's hair.


End file.
